


A Café West of Temperance

by guybriefly



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Falling In Love, Loneliness, M/M, Old Friends, Pining, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-05-23 21:25:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14941670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guybriefly/pseuds/guybriefly
Summary: It's nice to catch up with old friends from work sometimes. Leon hasn't seen Garfield in a while, and vice versa; they didn't talk much back when they worked for the bureau, so they were never particularly close, but that can change. A lot can change.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> just a bunch'a weird old men falling in love, lads.  
> post canon but not ENTIRELY canon-compliant, because this IS a a gartificer (or... leonfield?) fic, and you should expect that. i may write more? i have ideas, but am unsure. let me know what you guys think.

‘Is this seat taken?’

Leon looks up. Now that’s a voice he hasn’t heard in a while. Shrill and lilting with a dancing cadence but not grating. Pleasant, maybe, after a while. He scans his surprise companion’s face for a moment before offering a half-smile. With his free hand he gestures to the seat opposite him. Garfield smiles, as toothily as ever, and pulls out the chair, sitting down.

For a while neither of them speaks. Leon at least expects Garfield to spark up a conversation; how strange it is to show up like a phantom before an ex-colleague then stay silent, staring out at the ocean with lidded eyes and a faint feline smile. A phantom; the image of the Deals Warlock lying mangled in some stock-room under a fateful avalanche of unsold wares swims through Leon’s mind but leaves it quickly. He inhales the sea air. It’s already making his beard frizz up.

‘You quit too, huh?’ Garfield says, finally. He leans his elbows on the table. Leon can make out faint, tired circles of grey beneath his eyes.

‘Two _Taacos_ is more than enough,’ he murmurs, half-smiling, stirring his drink absently. The wooden stirrer clinks against the side of the cup; the porcelain chimes against his teeth as he takes a steady sip. Fragrant tea and ocean air, washing away the bullshit of the past few years.

‘Yeah,’ Garfield says, with a waltzing lift at the end that makes Leon expect a follow-up, but all he says is, with a sigh, ‘Yeah. They were like that.’

Looking from Garfield to the table to the ocean, Leon finishes a sip of tea and dabs at his mouth with a handkerchief.

‘Are you having anything?’

Garfield looks up, almost surprised. ‘Oh? No. No, I just- I just saw you here and thought I’d…’ His voice trails off. Claws click on black glass as he drums his fingers on the table. ‘Thought I’d say hi.’

There’s a short silence before Garfield smiles awkwardly, too wide, showing too many teeth.

‘Hi…!’

To his relief, Leon smiles back and visibly relaxes. It’s clement here; he’s not wearing his heavy robes but lighter clothing, exposing the fine silver hairs lining his forearms. Scanning his face Garfield realises his complexion has brightened a little since they last met. When was that? God, it would’ve been back at the moon-base. The dark blue circles below his eyes have cleared and the apples of his cheeks glow more brightly under the beachside sun. Looking down, his hands aren’t as shaky; looking up, his eyes have their gnomish twinkle and the honest, grandfatherly kindness that actually catches Garfield off-guard.

Under his fur, Garfield feels his face warm up.

‘So, what have you been doing, Garfield?’ Leon absentmindedly twirls his spoon between his deft gnomish fingers as he stares contently at the deals warlock. ‘Since you closed the Fantasy Costco, I mean.’

Garfield stares at his thumbs. The cloth of his robe, too thick in this balmy heat, creases as he shrugs his shoulders. ‘Aw, the usual, y’know?’ He laughs, half-nervously, scratching at the back of his neck. He’s not making eye contact. ‘Just moving around. Seeing the sights. Getting into some hobbies…’

Leon’s eyes brighten. His smile spreads. The warmth crossing his face makes Garfield straighten in his seat. There’s such a gentleness in the crinkling of the corners of his eyes, the soft curve of his nose, his lips parting for a moment to show a flash of white, his neck craning as he leans in further to bask in his old friend’s presence.

‘Hobbies? That’s wonderful. What kind of hobbies?’

The proximity is starting to make Garfield sweat. He lets out a kind of weird half-chuckle. What is this? Why is he nervous? He could take Leon in a fight, sure. Probably. His hands- paws? – _hands._ – are sticky and he wipes them on the lap of his robe as he turns to sit sideways in his seat, face towards the ocean, watching buoys bobbing distantly in the waves.

‘Oh, nothing special, nothing special.’ Garfield’s eyes scan the horizon. The sea breeze brushes through his whiskers. ‘Cooking. Whittling. Dentistry.’ He pauses a moment before adding, ‘Still makin’ deals, though!’

For a second, Leon’s face falters. His expression twitches. Garfield cringes as he anticipates the questions; what kind of deals, and with whom? But Leon doesn’t ask that. Garfield doesn’t know if he was planning to. He doesn’t want to answer those questions. Part of him isn’t sure why. Like a child asking a parent why they can’t just buy everything they need when money is tight. There’s an economy to this interaction that he has to respect, a delicate balance. The parts of him that _do_ know why are divided; half say _keep him at arm’s length, don’t tell him, a Deals Warlock needs his secrets,_ while the other cries _don’t tell him; if he knows, what will he say? What will he think?_

_Why do I care?_

He trails off into an awkward laugh and Leon smiles, taking another sip of his tea. ‘How excellent. I’m glad you’re still doing what you love.’

The word makes Garfield’s heart skip into his throat. Leon’s expression slowly falls and he looks down into the swirling dregs of his drink. Tilting his head, Garfield is prompted to ask, ‘So what are you doing nowadays?’

Leon heaves a sigh. ‘Not much. I don’t really have a need to work, but I’ve been helping out at the local library, tending the archives… I’ve been thinking about opening- hah, this will sound silly- opening my own… candy store.’

Garfield’s mouth curls into a catlike smirk and he tilts his head. ‘Not silly at all! That sounds delightful!’

Both men laugh momentarily before falling quiet. Leon gives a murmur of ‘A gnome can dream…’ before going silent. This keeps happening; a moment of connection then nothing, planets turning in tangent, passing by each other on each rotation then parting into the void. Garfield aches. It’s so warm, sitting here, by this ocean, with this man, with this _friend,_ breathing this thick, cozy air that smells faintly of coffee and salt, it’s like table tennis, trying to keep the ball in the air, and every time it wavers off the edge of the table his heart sinks and sickens.

‘Sorry if this is a weird question,’ he starts, drawing circles in the spilled sugar with his claw, ‘But you were going to be the treasurer for the bureau, right?’

Leon pauses, sighs, bows his head. A silvery lock of hair tumbles down across his face. ‘Yes. Yes, I was.’

‘So…’ Garfield draws out the vowel, eyes trailing down to the cobbled road, dry sandy grass peeking out between the stones. ‘I mean, that’s a good job, Leon, my buddy. Pay’s good, less dealing with you-know-who. Why’d you leave?’

 Leon purses his lips, sucks in a breath of air, then motions to inside the café. A waitress exits; he pays silently, murmuring a small ‘thank you’ as she takes his almost-empty cup. Garfield watches in anxious confusion. Leaving already? Did he touch a nerve?

‘Let’s take a walk, Garfield.’ Leon gets up, the feet of his chair scraping the pavement. Garfield follows suit as Leon pulls a light jacket over himself. Seeing him dressed so casually throws Garfield a little; he’s used to long robes in royal blues and dark purple, sometimes dotted with silver stars or lined with gold trim, pinned with jewelled brooches, hooded, dignified. The salmon button-up isn’t unbecoming on him, though. ‘I think the pier should still be open.’

Leon is quiet as they walk to the pier, high arches of wood still decked in bunting and small fairy lights that glitter in the ocean between gaps in the wood. The gates are open. A few people linger, watching the sun slink under the ebbing blanket of the sea, eating and batting away seagulls, holding hands. In this moment Garfield feels an urge to grasp Leon’s. Only momentarily, as if instinctual, like the motivation to flinch away from danger or bite into something round and bright. He doesn’t. He wants to.

‘So,’ says Garfield, quietly. Quietly for him. Still loud enough to turn heads.

‘So,’ Leon breathes back. ‘Well, yes. Yes, I left the bureau. With enough saved to, um, live comfortably, of course. Madam Lucretia wouldn’t let me go without ensuring my safe journey.’ He laughs weakly, soles scuffing the grainy sand. ‘I, well, for a while- it’s ridiculous- I thought it’d be a little calmer. As treasurer, I mean. No arrogant elves and their- ugh, their idiot friends…’

He sighs. Garfield looks away from him. He watches his feet on the boards of the pier, listens to the hum of the ocean, the cries of seabirds. If he wanted to he _could_ grab one out of the air and eat it, and believe me when I say he _does_ want to, but he decides not to. It just doesn’t seem like the kind of thing you do in polite company, and he’s not sure if Leon counts as polite company, but he still doesn’t seem like the kind of person who’d be impressed by his amazing spontaneous hunting and bird-eating skills.

Why does he care about impressing him?

Garfield isn’t sure about that either.

Hitching up his robe’s hem slightly so as not to catch sand, he watches the people walking by, away from the sea as if pushed by the tide, down the pier and to their cars and homes, still sticky and giddy from a day by the ocean. They’re talking loudly, they’re holding hands, they’re eating ice cream; Garfield feels two things. First he feels the ever-familiar presence of a business opportunity, like a cold spot in a haunted house; he could sell ice cream. New, _weird_ flavours. _Enchanted_ ice cream, for the casual adventurer. But next he feels a yearning, a deep yawning desire, and at first he can’t place it but then he notices it’s envy: he sees the happy, tired joy of these couples leaving the pier, their companionship doesn’t end at the gates to the boardwalk. They’ll go home, probably; they’ll stay in touch, most likely; they might sleep in the same house, the same room, same bed, same warmth – his fur bristles. Sickly jealousy rises caustic in his stomach. He wants that.

Both men reach the end of the pier. Leon sits down with a tired grunt on an engraved bench, tribute to some great person of charity some many, many years ago. Garfield never really understood this sentiment, honouring someone with furniture, letting strangers sit on your legacy, a bench overlooking the ocean, but then he looks down at Leon and thinks, maybe this is it. Maybe this is why; a place for the dead to sit beside you, a place for you to sit beside the dead. There’s nothing really better than sitting by the ocean in the late afternoon, watching the lowering sun glitter in the waves. He watches Leon’s eyes close in relief. Seems like a nice place to spend forever. The plaque might fetch a price, too. Pity he didn’t bring his screwdriver.

Still looking at Leon, studying the gnome’s face, the sun streaming down the silver waterfall of his beard, Garfield says, ‘You smoke?’

Leon doesn’t open his eyes. He’s basking, almost catlike, and Garfield appreciates that. ‘No.’

‘Oh!’

Discreetly – via a very violent and frankly impressive overhand pitch – Garfield lobs the box of cigarettes into the ocean.

‘Me neither.’

The breeze, though briny, is faintly sweet. Garfield inhales deeply.

‘Y’know what? This is nice.’

‘Hm?’

Garfield looks down, leaning his elbows on the railing at the end of the pier. ‘It’s nice. Being here, seeing you again. It really has been a while, huh?’

‘It has.’

‘We… we didn’t, uh, talk to each other that much.’ Garfield stares into the sea and imagines sunken shipwrecks and pirate gold. He squeezes his eyes shut. A quick buck lying untouched at the bottom of the ocean. He thinks of sitting down next to Leon and wrapping an arm around his shoulders; he thinks of stripping a shipwreck to its bones and prying ruby rings from the fingers of skeletons. ‘Busy?’

‘Busy.’

‘What a shame-!’ His voice hits a peak and breaks slightly. ‘Really, what a waste. Surely at some point between managing the ol’ Fantasy Costco and attending my _various_ hobbies, and you artificing all over like an artificer does, we would’ve- I mean- at least _once…_ hung out, you know?’

Leon snorts. ‘Hung out.’ Under his breath, he tuts, as if scolding a child. ‘Men my age don’t _hang out,_ Garfield.’

‘Men your age? Oh, nonsense, Mr The Artificer, you don’t look a day over-’ He freezes, wracking his brain for what’s young for a gnome. ‘Thhhiiiirtyyyy… seveeeeen…?’

After studying his face for a moment, Leon shakes his head with a meek laugh. ‘Flattery might work on your customers, Garfield, but not me.’

‘Ooh, what _will_ work?’ Garfield whirls around, clasping his hands together. He scuttles behind Leon eagerly, grasping his shoulders. ‘Bribe you with candy? Huh? Strike up a bargain?’

That rattling laugh is musical, like a stroke of xylophone. ‘A bargain for what?’

 ‘Well, I dunno, big shot, what are you in the mood for?’ Garfield kneads Leon’s shoulders, leaning down closer, so close his whiskers brush Leon’s ear and the sensation makes him squirm slightly. He smells of books, and metal, and faintly of spices. _‘_ You, me? Tuesday? 10:30? _Brunch?!’_

The intensity of his delivery causes Leon to flinch slightly away from him and mutter a soft curse.

‘Brunch… sounds good, Garfield. Yes, I can certainly do that.’ After a pause, scratching at the peeling paint on the bench’s arm, he adds, ‘This… _is_ supposed to be a bargain, though. What do you get from this?’

There’s a split second where Garfield doesn’t know how to answer that, but he quickly picks up the ball with a chipper ‘Well, I get to spend some quality time with you, my old pal! We can _gachapon_ what we’ve been doing since we last met!’

Garfield’s grin is wide and wild. It takes Leon all of three seconds to get the joke. Laughing hoarsely, he shakes his head and brushes Garfield’s hand off his shoulder. Their hands touch. Warm and soft and gentle. Garfield is suddenly overcome with a sensation like being wrapped in a big, soft blanket. His hand slides away from Leon and their orbits part again, now floating in space, now an island in the ocean.

‘I should be getting home.’ Leon stretches. He gets up, shrugs off his jacket and slings it over one shoulder, two bony fingers hooked under the loop on the inside of the collar. ‘I’ll see you on Tuesday. Is the coffee shop here okay, or did you have somewhere else in mind?’

‘Here’s good for me!’ Garfield beams, ignoring the growing pit in his stomach. Leon smiles back. The sensation of warmth returns.

They walk together as far as the gates to the pier, chatting idly before the gates swing shut behind them and they’re back on the cobbled street, winding down as people trickle away, closing their shops and packing up their things and returning to what awaits them at home. What awaits Garfield is a cluttered hoard of trinkets and goods, piles of loose money to be sorted, half-schemes and sharply-worded letters, items no responsible god would let a guy like him have, shiny but still cold and unresponding. He doesn’t know what awaits Leon.

‘Well, this is me.’ He smiles awkwardly. ‘Gotta go back to the ol’ lair. I’ll… see you Tuesday, my man…!’

Leon nods. ‘I’ll see you then. Have a lovely evening, Mr Deals Warlock.’

He reaches up and pats Garfield’s back. He has to stretch a little to pat any higher than his ass, but his hand manages to reach the small of his back and lingers there for a second before slipping away. They begin to walk away from each other, but after ten paces Garfield turns. Leon glances over his shoulder, beams warmly, waves his free hand as he continues to walk.

Garfield waves back. Something inside of him flutters.

It was nice to see him again.


	2. Stand-Up Guy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's me, local handsome dumbass, with a new chapter, finally... hopefully more! Hopefully soon. I lost half of this chapter to a computer crash, and that shit always puts me off rewriting... hopefully the rewriting only made it better, though! Enjoy!

Leon sits at the café, and waits.

And waits.

And waits.

Ten minutes, thirty minutes, no sign of Garfield. It’s starting to concern him. His brow knits. Surely, he wouldn’t blow him off in this way; he seemed so enthusiastic about brunch. Sitting under a pastel parasol he feels viscerally visible. He even tried to make himself look nice – he had his beard lightly trimmed, he pressed his nicest shirt and his fawn jacket; the thought of it all being for nought makes him feel stupid. Being stood up is for teenagers. He’s too old for this.

Still not here. The waitress keeps coming back out for him, asking him if he’s done with his tea. It’s cold, but he keeps saying he’s fine, just waiting for someone, and every time she nods and says _okay,_ each time less convinced until she just stops coming by his table. He flexes his fingers. He bites his thumbnail. Part of him wants to take a quick walk to stretch his legs but what if Garfield comes and doesn’t see him, like when you’re waiting for a bus and unsure if you’ve missed it or if it’s just late, and if you turn away for a second, it’ll come and go without you?

Maybe this was the deal. Some weird, sick game Garfield is playing. Leon gets a few moments of excitement, of glee at the idea of meeting up with an old work friend, and the cost is the humiliation of realising that he was never coming, Garfield never meant to entertain his fantasy of forming a bond with someone he finally has an opportunity to get close to. Why would he?

No. No, he can’t think that way. Maybe Garfield just got caught up on the way? Maybe he lost his keys, or got stuck in traffic, or took a wrong turn?

Or maybe he just likes to fuck with Leon and drive him crazy like everyone else. Push his buttons like he’s a cute little game and treat him like shit when he’s _begged_ to be taken seriously and shown some _goddamn_ respect-

He notices his grip is tightening on the teacup and lets it drop to the saucer with a clink. There’s one way to be certain about this; he can walk the direction he thinks Garfield will be coming from and intercept him if he _is_ actually coming. That way he can ask him what the hell took him so long. And if he’s coming from another direction and misses Leon, then it’s his fault for being late.

Pulling his jacket around himself, Leon gets up, pays, thanks the concerned waitress, begins the walk up the cobblestone road, away from the café, towards a stern conversation about how you don’t stand up a certain gnome.

\---

_‘Hey, watch the goods, fella! What’s the big deal?’_

_‘What’s- what’s the big deal? What’s the big deal?! This is what the big deal is!’_

_‘…Ah, yes, a potion, a- a strength potion, of course! For the discerning adventurer with discerning-’_

_‘Don’t play dumb, you fuzzy little fuck, you watered this shit down!’_

_‘…Diet strength potion.’_

_‘You think that’s cute, huh? I lost my championship title because of you! I paid through the nose for this shit and I got humiliated in front of everyone!’_

_‘What do you want, big guy? A refund? Sorry, no can do, policy says-’_

_‘Oh, I’m not looking for a refund.’_

_‘Well, great, because I wasn’t gonna-’_

_‘You’re gonna pay with a lot more than gold.’_

_\---_

The slight incline isn’t enough to wind him but Leon finds himself panting slightly in indignation. He’s winding himself up. It’s like the olden days, when he’d hear the laughter of his least favourite adventuring trio echoing down the corridor – he’d wind himself tighter and tighter thinking of what bullshit they’d present him next, and finally, when they arrived, he’d be ready to snap, even before they’d opened their mouths. Now the thought of Garfield standing him up is doing the same.

A sharp pain shoots through his stomach and into his ribs. Dammit. His tight, huffing breaths have developed into a stitch in his side and the tension in his furrowed brow is congealing into a heavy headache behind his temples. People bustle by in sparse processions, a low murmur of conversation and squawking of seabirds brushing by his ears. There’s a sickly taste in the back of his throat. A deep breath of ocean air only clears it slightly.

It’s warm. Too warm. Especially while walking uphill. Dark patches of sweat are threatening to ruin Leon’s clean pressed shirt. It creases uncomfortably at the buttons and the tag at the back is starting to itch the nape of his neck. Everything in the world is coming together to piss Leon off.

To take his mind off it, Leon watches the opening storefronts. The barber sweeps sand off his patch of sidewalk and gives Leon a wave, which Leon responds to with a nod. He’s been considering a trim. Beach shops selling buckets, spades, things for kids. At one point in his life, Leon wanted children. He gave up on that idea. He remembers the moment he did – sitting in his office with a bottle and realising that if he’s this easily wound up by adults, kids must be insufferable.

Then again, that McDonald kid wasn’t too bad.

Smarty pants, but polite, at least.

And at some point around then, he thought about being married, too. That urge came and went in waves. When he first learned about the whole procedure as a young gnome he found it endlessly endearing; an everlasting union, peaceful domesticity. Then he found it sickly, then sweet, then stifling, then freeing, and eventually – similarly to his relationship with children – he realised on the Moon Base that even the nicest-seeming person can transform over a series of interactions. Living with one person for the rest of his life would kill him.

Maybe if that person didn’t wind him up, it’d be fine, but Leon hasn’t found a person who doesn’t do that and he’s stopped looking. Right now he’s only looking for one thing – the orange silhouette of a cat man ( _Tabaxi? No, Garfield doesn’t look like any tabaxi he’s met. He’s something else…)_ walking down the hill towards him.

\---

_Garfield realises far too late that he left his stuff in his other cloak. He spilled coffee on it. Had to throw it back in the wash. His smoke bombs, umbra flasks, potions, everything – everything useful. He reaches into his black cloak’s pockets and finds them empty. Fuck. At least he can’t rob him._

_Sunlight parts around a dark figure in the mouth of the alley. The Deals Warlock scrambles back, chittering uneasily, eyes darting. He runs his tongue over his teeth. Everything tastes dry. He’s on his ass in the dirt and a shape towers over him, a thin sliver glinting in the void. A growl grows in the back of his throat and his ears press back under his hood._

_Elsewhere, light streams in._

\---

Having nearly tripped over it twice, Leon flips his long beard over his shoulder, wrapping it around like a scarf. The white hair wicks beads of sweat off the back of his neck. Sand has found its way into his shoes. He stuffs his thumbs into his pockets. The anger has turned into a hollow displeasure already, the spitting rage now only a low, simmering grumble. He’s not _angry_ anymore, he’s just _–_ okay, no, that’s a lie, he _is_ angry, but not just at Garfield. He’s angry because he’s _tired,_ both in the sense that he’s too old to be running after people and in the sense that he’s sick of this shit. It’s exhausting. He’s had enough.

Almost at the top of the hill, Leon sees a figure lumbering over the horizon. At first he moves out of the way, giving the swaying figure most of the sidewalk, until he notices the twitching ears slightly flattened against a head of orange fur and he recognises Garfield with a pit of frothing frustration in his stomach. Garfield’s cartoonishly sneaky gait has turned into a lilting, stumbling walk, like someone trying to walk on the deck of a ship in stormy water.

Leon stops. Garfield blinks and notices him, mouth spreading into a weak smile. He’s not showing all of his teeth. Somehow it’s creepier that way. Something is wrong.

‘Leon…!’ Garfield says. ‘Oh, Leon, you should’ve told me you were… coming up to meet me! Come, come, let’s-’ He pauses to cough into his paw. ‘Let’s go to the café. I could _murder_ a scone!’

His words slur together and Leon finds the anger in his stomach start to twist and boil.

‘Garfield,’ he says, quiet, almost surprised; ‘You’re… are you _drunk?’_

Garfield’s face falls. His half-lidded eyes widen slightly. ‘What? Don’t be silly, dear artificer, I- I don’t touch the stuff.’

Sneering, Leon brushes Garfield’s hand away when he tries to touch his arm. His grasp is limp and his eyes won’t focus.

‘For fuck’s sake.’

Leon turns away. _Don’t cry. Don’t fucking cry. Be a goddamn man and don’t cry. This keeps happening._

‘I should’ve expected this.’ He heaves a sigh, choking slightly. ‘I’m going home, Garfield. Don’t call me.’

‘Leon, _honey,_ w- wait, I absolutely _swear_ I’m- I’m- _oh…’_

Leon doesn’t intend to turn around, but when Garfield’s voice trails off into a low groan and he hears a thud, he can’t help it.

‘Are you seriously _that_ drunk _this_ early in the- Garfield?’

Crouching down, Leon feels the indignation in his gut turn into concern. Garfield struggles to pick himself up. When he peels his belly from the sidewalk-

‘Oh, _fuck.’_

‘Wh…’ Garfield’s head lolls. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘You’re bleeding.’ Leon’s eyes widen. He feels his head pulse. ‘Why- why are you bleeding. Garfield, why on earth are you bleeding?!’

Garfield shrugged. ‘I got stabbed on the way here. It’s nothing, trust me. We have a date to be on.’

It takes Leon a long second to comprehend what Garfield is saying. ‘You were _stabbed?!_ By _whom?!’_

‘Some jerk.’ Garfield waves him off. ‘Come on, I’m going to be late for…’

His voice trails into an indistinct groan. Guilt and fear and panic wash over Leon as he watches Garfield’s bright eyes blur.

‘How long ago was this, Garfield? Stay with me, now.’ He slaps Garfield’s cheek gently. ‘It’s alright, you’re alright. When were you stabbed?’

‘Five… ten minutes…?’ Garfield smiles weakly. There’s blood on the hand he coughed into. ‘You’re so worried, it’s… adorable…!’

‘Be quiet,’ Leon mutters, fumbling in his pockets. People are starting to crowd around. Garfield tries to get up but he pushes him down again. ‘Lie down and- and-‘

He takes off his jacket and scrunches it up into a ball.

‘Press this to your- your- the fucking knife wound you weren’t going to tell me about.’ Breathing heavily, Leon looks around. ‘Someone call Fantasy 911.’

The crowd stares.

‘ _Now!’_

Leon turns back to Garfield as someone in the crowd fumbles a Stone of Farspeech and starts desperately talking to the operator. The cat-man’s breaths are ragged and shallow. Every time he tries to pick up his head, it falls down again with a low thud on the sidewalk.

‘You’re going to concuss yourself,’ Leon breathes, shuffling around to Garfield’s head. ‘Here. Let me just…’

Kneeling, he tucks his knees under Garfield’s head, supporting it gently as he runs a hand over his soft cheek.

‘Idiot. Absolute fool.’ Leon shakes his head. ‘How long were you going to go without telling me?’

‘I have a lot of blood!’ Garfield says, distantly but proudly. ‘I… I was… going to tell you during brunch, you know, as… as a conversation starter…’

As stupid as it is, Leon can’t help but smile. ‘You’re such an oddball, Mr Deals Warlock.’

‘Please, call me… Garf… Garfield…’

‘Oh, hush, hush, hush. It’s alright. It’s okay.’

‘Look at me, I’ve ruined our date…’

Laughing helplessly, Leon bows his head down. He’s choking up again; his grey hair falls across Garfield’s face and he brushes it away with a shaky hand. ‘ _Do_ stop calling it a date.’

‘Isn’t it…?’

‘I…’ Leon lets out a sound that could be a sob or a laugh. ‘I can’t tell if you’re joking.’

Garfield smiles, thinly but widely, and doesn’t answer.

Fantasy 911 arrives promptly, the large white carriage’s rear doors being thrown open and the paramedics spilling out like clowns from a clown car. The crowd parts. White-coated clerics tentatively load the Deals Warlock’s limp form onto a stretcher. He’s like a cloak and nothing else. Leon very quickly aches at the absence of Garfield’s head in his lap but he jumps up to follow.

‘We’re sorry, sir.’ A paramedic stops him with an outstretched hand. ‘We can’t let you come with him.’

‘But-’ Leon’s insides twist with panic. ‘I’ll- I can visit him later…?’

‘Of course, sir.’ The paramedic looks him up and down, then says with a sympathetic look, ‘He’ll be just fine.’

As the back doors slam, Garfield calls out a weak ‘I told you I wasn’t drunk…!’ before the Fantasy Ambulance begins to pull away. Leon watches it disappear around the corner, the flashing blue and red orbs growing distant as the crowd trickles away. He’s there, alone, kneeling on the sidewalk with a bloody fawn jacket and a rapid heartbeat. Shaking, he manages to lift himself to his feet. Walking hurts. He stumbles towards the nearest food outlet to grab a bite to eat and gets a cab home.

He can barely eat the sandwich he bought but he forces himself to. If he doesn’t, he’ll throw up and it’ll be nothing but burning bile. He needs something in his stomach. Cheese, salad, meat, bread. Once he takes a bite he can’t stop himself and devours it and needs _more._ He paces his living room for and hour and vomits in the bathroom.

_Gods,_ he hopes Garfield’s okay.

That absolute moron. The _idiot._ How could he act so nonchalantly about being _stabbed?!_ Garfield always seems to live in a different reality. Maybe this will ground him – or maybe not. What an oddball, what an absolute oddball. Leon almost laughs, but feels his sickly stomach roil like an uneasy ocean. He sets the kettle on the stove to boil.

Trying to take his mind off it doesn’t work. He tries to knit, read, carry on with his painting, start a jigsaw he’s been meaning to finish, but he’s too restless, far too restless. All he can do is pace until he rediscovers the miracle of tidying. He works through half of his home: dusting, brushing, polishing, frantically reorganising books on the shelves, until the shrill squeal of the whistling kettle shocks him back to reality.

Dumping a teaspoon of herbs into the infusing basket, he begins to steep the tea.

Blood loss. Shock. A white flash of metal and the cold pain of a knife entering the stomach. He can’t imagine how terrifying it must have been – but then again, Garfield seems unfazed by almost everything, riding a constant, euphoric high like the constant barrelling thrill of a rollercoaster. Leon realises suddenly that he needs a shower. Steam and the strong aroma of herbal tea fill the kitchen.

Leon almost forgets about the whole Garfield incident during a long bath, slipping slowly into the hot water as the tension in his muscles melts. It’s only when the water begins to cool that he blinks himself awake, remembering gradually that something awful happened only hours ago. He does hope that Garfield’s okay. A small part of him feels immensely guilty that he was so quick to think that Garfield was standing him up. How could he have known? Poor man. Being subjected to an imaginary dressing-down while he was bleeding out.

Why did the man even stab him in the first place? Leon pensively rubs shampoo into his bead, the silvery hairs turning into a glistening white foam as if the gnome had been born from the foot of a waterfall. Garfield has always been mysterious. The more Leon thinks about it, the more he considers the fact that Garfield doesn’t seem _not_ to be the type of man who attracts enemies. The concept of Garfield crossing the wrong people doesn’t surprise him.

Still, the idea of Garf being fucking _stabbed_ is almost as incredible as Garfield’s reaction to the event. Garfield seems like the kind of fellow who has ways of getting out of that kind of situation. It’s as if he’s been cut down to size, as if the mental image of him has been declawed. Leon remembers hearing something about Garfield’s reaction to being swindled out of his most valued piece of merchandise. He doesn’t seem like the kind of man who takes defeat easily.

And now Leon’s concerned about Garfield’s _mental_ wellbeing. What business does he have, sending him on this emotional rollercoaster? Fondness, hate, fear, concern. The nerve of that man. Slinking deeper beneath the foaming water, Leon furrows his brow, massaging his beard. It’s a little late to feel this fond towards the Deals Warlock; the time to become friends was years ago, back at the moon base. It’s passed now. They’re just ex-coworkers. Barely that.

But it’d be nice to be more. It’d be sweet. So long as they didn’t have any more of these little situations, becoming closer to old Garfield would likely be pleasant, if Garfield would let him. It seems that Garfield’s mellowed out slightly in the past few years, but he still never seemed like the kind of man who keeps friends. Then again, he never seemed like the kind of man who gets stabbed before a date.

Not a date. Brunch. Damn it.

What was he thinking? Of course; how nice it would be to befriend Garfield after all this time. They surely have things in common; rare items, new hobbies, their pasts as vendors on the moon. Walking on the pier with him was such a tender experience, and Leon’s not even sure why. Just nice to reconnect, that’s all. It was so good to see him then. He wishes they could’ve spent more time together, both then in the distant past and yesterday and in the time in-between.

A thought occurs to Leon momentarily and he shivers in the bathwater, pulling himself out of it and wrapping himself in a bathrobe. He twists his beard up into a towel – old gnomish technique. The thought keeps plaguing him. Gods, it’s stupid. A childish idea. He’s too old to be having crushes. He’s barely really talked to Garfield lately, anyway, even if the allure of being – like a _child! –_ in love beckons to him.

He thinks of that as he slips into his pyjamas. It’s the allure of having passion for something, not the person himself. It’s not _love._ He just likes the _idea_ of _being_ in love. Garfield was stabbed, of course he’s worried for him. He’s, again, too old for this kind of thing anyway. Leon’s nimble fingers braid his beard into a long plait. He can think about this in the morning.

In the morning, when he goes to see if he can visit Garfield in the hospital.


End file.
